


Don't Think Twice (It's All Right)

by jld_az



Series: Where Have You Been, My Blue-eyed Son [3]
Category: Chronicles of Amber - Roger Zelazny
Genre: Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Bisexual Male Character, M/M, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Quickies
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-22
Updated: 2020-06-22
Packaged: 2021-03-03 23:15:39
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,512
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24853681
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jld_az/pseuds/jld_az
Summary: Set during the Patternfall War, four days out from Chaos.Title from 'Don't Think Twice, It's All Right' by Bob Dylan
Series: Where Have You Been, My Blue-eyed Son [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1798066
Comments: 2
Kudos: 2





	Don't Think Twice (It's All Right)

**Author's Note:**

> the author needed to blow off some steam. so did the character. win/win
> 
> #LivingVicariouslyThruFic

They’d discovered the city by accident, just after sunrise: An abandoned arrangement of tall, narrow buildings, cut apart by concrete-edged blacktop; monoliths of stone and steel and glass set in perfect quadrants that belied the Shadow’s proximity to Chaos. The squad had taken their time clearing it of traps and ambushes before they’d given the All Clear and brought in the rest of the Advance Guard; who had set watches and relayed the location to Command as a hostile-free zone; who in turn designated it a Rally Point for the advancing force at large. Within an hour they’d filled five buildings to capacity, their occupation still ballooning.

It was a rare camp that came equipped with permanent structures anymore, let alone a stable power grid, or hot- and cold-running water. Yet here they were, four days from the Courts, with actual roofs over their heads and functional lights and plumbing, and fuck if Tristan wasn’t going to take a goddamn shower and kip in a goddamn bed while he could. So after KP had been sorted and sleeping blocks had been assigned, he was pretty quick to claim a front-corner room on the fifth floor of The Arlo, which had clear views of the street, and adequate exfil capability via private terrace.

Tristan dropped his rucksack by the foot of the oversized bed, plush carpet muffling the sound, and resisted the urge to flop face-first into the pristine white coverlet. He carefully removed his weapons, laying them out on the bureau for eventual maintenance, then sat on the edge of a chair to untie and pull off his boots before tugging apart the straps of his tac gear.

It was rancid, honestly. The miasma of stink that wafted up from his open uniform was several days deep, and he briefly considered showering with it on first to get rid of the most offensive smells before he hauled it down to the laundry, but decided that would probably do more harm than good. So he shoved the entire mass into a slick black bag instead, and set it by the door. He then strode nude to the bathroom, turned the shower temperature as high as he could stand, and stepped into the spray. His moan reverberated on the tiles — decadent, and almost indecent.

Afterwards, he took a moment to examine himself in the mirror. Stripped of its sweat-and-grime striae, his skin tingled pink where it hadn’t been freckled bronze by the sun, and the few lingering bruises from their latest skirmish appeared to be healing normally. But he was more focused on his overall condition, and noted with a complete lack of vanity the leanness of his frame, the raised angles of his collar bones, the visible muscle fibers beneath the taught flesh of his torso. He was reminded of a racehorse, or a coursing hound, and determined he needed to stay better hydrated. It’d been a rough couple of weeks, sure, but this was a bit excessive.

Tristan pulled on his sleep pants and tee, stepped into his trainers, and hefted the bag of reeking tac gear over his shoulder. Invigorated, he took the stairs down to the main floor to burn some excess energy, and headed for the laundry facility he’d located earlier in the day.

He arrived to find he wasn’t alone in his desire for a shower and clean clothes: A half-dozen freshly-scrubbed and similarly-clad officers had already sussed out how to work the machines, and he greeted them cordially as he entered; listened briefly to their banter as he claimed a washer for himself, and followed the instructive pictographs inside the lid. When he closed it and keyed in his room number as prompted, there was a sturdy _click_ , followed by a woosh of water filling the tub. A timer appeared where the keypad had been, counting minutes down from fifty, so he left it to its thing and went for a stroll through the hotel, subconsciously clocking the cycle.

KP had set up a chow line in the dining room, and he checked in with a few familiar faces as he heaped himself a plate, then proceeded to devour it with gusto. He got the sense that morale was steady, but rising fast with the prospect of good sleep and fresh socks. A couple people actually went out of their way to thank him, as though he’d somehow discovered this little oasis unaided. He was quick but polite in correcting that assumption, and rightfully passed most of the credit to others in his squad.

On his way back from moving his clothes into the dryer, Tristan discovered Eoin and several other officers (mainly Vert) had taken up tables in the hotel bar, freshened and fed and completely immersed in a boisterous game of Downriver. Their volume said they’d been at the liquor, but their manner told him it was within reason and who could fault them, really? So he joined in for a few hands, summarily had his ass handed to him by Major Lewison while getting his own buzz on, and excused himself when the clock in his head ran down to zeroes.

The laundry had become a sweatbox of near-manic activity by that point, and he was glad to have beaten the rush when he collected his clothes and returned to his room. He toed off his shoes beside the bed, and took a little time in checking his tac gear for irreparable damage and indelible stains before hanging the pieces in the alcove by the door — mostly for lack of somewhere better to put them, but also because hangers were provided.

He retrieved his cleaning kit from his rucksack, and set himself up at the table on the terrace. Then he made a meditation of disassembling, servicing, and reassembling his P90, his Glock, his SIG-Sauer. He re-strung and adjusted the tension coil on his pistol bow; edged up his short sword and a few of his knives; took stock of his ammo cache while reloading his clips.

It was well past sunset when he finished, although the number of illuminated windows up and down the street made it difficult to tell. Tristan stowed his weapons, washed his hands and face, brushed his teeth and hair. He drew the blackout blinds to within an inch, folded back the blankets, and climbed into bed. He settled into the pillow, and laced his fingers across his abdomen, over the covers. He closed his eyes, and cycled a five-count breath.

Ten minutes later his eyes popped open, unrested. 

Ten minutes after _that_ , he tossed back the blankets with a huff and rolled into a seat at the edge of the mattress, unable to settle.

His ability to fall asleep anywhere in under sixty seconds was lauded by his peers. Sometimes though, like now, his ability to micro-nap superseded it. Tristan reached over to switch on the nightstand light, and wondered briefly if any of the guys might still be in the bar, because if sleep hadn’t come by now then he could clearly use the distraction.

But the idea of taking this pent-up energy downstairs, and surrounding it with alcohol and bombast, felt deeply counterproductive. And potentially reckless, if he were being honest, since the one activity he _knew_ would expel this feeling was generally frowned upon in combat zones. In the end he slipped his shoes back on, and went for another walk — this time taking the stairs up instead of down.

They deposited him onto a rooftop garden at the sixth storey, glass double doors automatically sliding apart on his approach. The level placed him above most of the surrounding buildings, which substantially muted the ambient light, so he missed the darkened figure seated against the streetside bulwark until he was nearly on top of it. Tristan halted, hard, and focused his attention on the form. As he did, a smooth, low baritone spoke out from it.

“I heard a rumor,” it said, “that you once took a nap in a bole during a stakeout drill with Alpha Squad. True or false?”

Tristan smirked in spite of himself. “True. Although I don’t think it was nearly as impressive as they try to make it sound. It was a pretty big tree.”

The mass shifted, but did not rise. Just stretched out one leg until a bare foot revealed itself to the scant moonlight; long and broad, with smooth mahogany skin and buffed pearlescent nails. It was all the confirmation he needed to the man’s identity.

“And the three-day push against Ghenesh?”

“Also true,” Tristan replied. He braced his forearms on the top of the brick half-wall, and let his gaze pan over the avenue below. “But you’d be surprised how much sleep you can get in the saddle when your mount isn’t a complete asshole.”

Petra chuckled, a soothing rumble that faded to companionable silence. Then,

“You’re a bit legendary, you know,” he said. Tristan snorted a laugh.

“Honestly, sometimes it’s a nuisance,” he replied. “Especially when I have a perfectly good rack just _begging_ me to tuck in, but can’t get myself to shut down for longer than nine-minute increments.”

The other man made a sympathetic sound, and Tristan cast a look his direction; took in the silhouetted profile now that his eyes had adjusted to the dark. Admired the regal slope of his brow, and the stoic jut of his chin; the arched length of neck; the broad curve of his ches-

He redirected his attention with an almost audible swallow. Wrung his fingers together where they dangled over the wall, and tried to ignore the simmering heat in his gut. Focused instead on far below and west, where their army continued to arrive and consolidate. He really _should_ go back to his room, he thought. He really _should_ say goodnight, go back to his room, rub one out, and (if he were lucky) immediately ride that release into sleep.

Except-

“There’s a fountain on the other side,” Petra offered, non-sequitur. “Can you hear it?”

Tristan tilted his head and listened, tuned out the distant drone of incoming personnel, and eventually caught the sound of cascading water on stone from beyond the stairwell. Petra rose to his feet, far more sinuous than his bulk implied was possible, and slid his hands into the pockets of his slacks; looked down at Tristan from his full height with an unmistakable gleam in his eye.

And he really _should_ go back to his room. Really. Should.

But when Petra tilted his head in silent invitation, then casually strode that direction, Tristan fell in instead — a willful rebuff to his impulse control.

The two men made their way around the stairwell in a wide arc, Tristan’s left shoulder occasionally brushing up against Petra’s right bicep, and the fleeting contact built up beneath his skin like static electricity. Had him alternately folding his arms across his chest, or letting them swing free.

The fountain, when they found it, was little more than a quintet of faux boulders, piled in an artistically haphazard fashion at the edge of a shallow basin that had been scooped from the concrete roof. It was demarcated from the main walkway by a semi-circle of benches, and hazily lit by recessed floor lamps. They paused as a unit to appreciate the sound, the sparkle of droplets in the dim, the ripple and lap of the water’s surface.

“How long have we known each-other, Tristan?”

The question was casual, but the inflection held weight. It smouldered in Tristan's ears as he ran his palms across the back of a bench, then curled his fingers around the sculpted wood, thumbs stroking the flawless surface in a latent caress.

“Twelve years, I suppose,” he finally calculated. “Give or take.”

When the other man hummed consideringly, Tristan risked a glance. Petra kept his pale green gaze trained on the distant skyline, his voice smooth and steady when he continued. 

“In all of that time, I’ve never regretted the path my career has taken. Only the opportunities I’ve denied myself out of discretion and proper conduct as a result.”

It was a confession that bore straight into his chest, kicked his pulse up a notch, and drew out an almost stuttering breath.

Tristan chuckled to cover. “Is that your ‘We could all die tomorrow’ speech?”

Petra didn’t. “Does it have to be?”

Tristan stepped back from the bench, and let his hands fall to his sides again; caught the other man’s eye from the corner of his. He felt his lips curl up in a half-smile, and gave a minute shake of his head: _No_.

Petra gave him a lingering once-over in return, and seemed to come to a decision. He turned away from the city, leaned against the benchback, and withdrew his hands from his pockets. He reached across to wrap the left one around Tristan’s hip, firmly inviting him to close the distance; cupped the right one around the back of his neck, and slid a thumb below his jaw to tilt his head when he complied.

The slow burn in his core erupted at the handling, and Tristan practically lunged to meet him. There was a flash of intense exchanges, a skirmish of tongues and lips and teeth over hot heavy breaths, his palms sculpting the curves of Petra’s chest in spite of the loop of _this is a really bad idea fuck such a bad idea_ in his head-

-but then the hand on his hip was sliding into the small of his back, curving down to push his pelvis forward, and one thick thigh was slotting between his and he could feel what was in store for him firming up between them and his hindbrain rationalized real quick that _technically_ he wasn’t in charge of this man’s life right now. Eoin was.

The last vestige of his resistance dissolved, and he ground down, lit up with uninhibited want. Petra _growled_ ; stood and shuffled Tristan backwards toward the shadowed exterior wall of the stairwell; pulled away only to turn him around and crowd into his space again, pressing him to the bricks with authority, and Tristan’s whole body was suddenly screeching _yesyesyes-_

“I knew it.” The voice was a low purr in his ear, a rumble across his back.

“ _Everyone_ knows it, Petra,” Tristan replied, mildly impressed at the steadiness of his words when his insides were practically vibrating. “I’ve never made a secret of my sexuality.”

The other man chuckled, the sound its own kind of promise. He followed it up by moving in closer, further pinning Tristan to the wall.

“Well, yes.” Petra slid a hand up his spine to curl around the side of his neck, fingertips light over his throat, thumb stroking his nape. “But _I_ knew you’d be sweet,” he continued in a low breath. “Knew you gravitated toward men like me for more than aesthetics. Knew if I ever had the chance…”

Tristan gasped slightly when Petra’s other hand palmed him firmly through his flannel pants; spread his feet apart almost subconsciously, body yielding even as the material tented. There was an appreciative hum from the man behind him, and the hand on his neck was stroking across his shoulder, down his arm, bending it up to pillow his head on. Tristan’s free hand reached back, wrapped around the base of Petra’s bare scalp, and hauled him in for a slightly sloppy kiss before he settled into the crook of his elbow, pliant.

“…so sweet,” Petra repeated, plush lips brushing the shell of his ear.

When Tristan gave over and let himself be completely uncomplicated, time became a fluid concept: it was an hour; it was a week; it was twenty seconds; it was a lifetime. And he wanted - _fuck_ he _really wanted_ \- to drop down into that space right now — let this rotting mess of a march on Chaos slough off, and give someone else the run of him for a while…

But they _were_ in an active war zone, so he strove to keep a tenuous hold on situational awareness even as Petra untied the drawstring and worked his pants down, dug into the meat of his ass and massaged toward his seam, teased where it mattered before slowly easing a slick finger inside. Two. Three. Curling and scissoring and purposefully nudging where he craved it most.

Tristan gritted his teeth against the sounds welling up in him, near ecstatic for the touch. Then he was biting into the meat of his bicep to keep from crying out, because thick fingers were being replaced by a broad convex surface, and the perfectstretchburnohfuckyessosogood was warm syrup in his head as he melted into it, his throat so thick with lust he could choke on it. He whined low through his teeth when those fingers wrapped around the root of him instead; set up a steady run along his length in time with the thrusts from behind, sometimes thumbing over, sometimes cupping below. He was caught in the delicious drag of entry and withdrawal, the unfamiliar grip with its oddly familiar callus points, the low murmuration of praises in his ear.

He was not long for it. It’d been months, and his partner was skilled. When release came, it raged through him to start, then tempered into a deep thrum. After, when he was cooling in Petra’s palm and the man had slipped out of him, spent, Tristan turned his head and asked,

“Do you always carry prophylactics and lube, or was it hopeful anticipation?”

Petra’s chuckle was a puff of damp air against his neck as he stripped off the condom.

“Technically, yes to both,” he replied, carefully withdrawing his hand, and taking most of the mess with it. “You know how useful those items can be in the field, but I’d be lying if I didn’t also admit that I knew you were in the building.”

“‘Any shot worth taking is worth being prepared for’,” Tristan recited. Then, emphatically, “ _Fuck_ I needed that.”

The other man barked a full-throated laugh at the sky. “Happy to be of service,” he replied as he stepped away. “And likewise.”

Tristan’s body was reluctant to move, but the absence of Petra pressed against him was inspiration to fix his clothes at the very least, which made additional actions simpler. He pushed back from the wall and turned around, cringed chastisingly at the mark he’d bitten into his bicep, meagerly attempted to tug his sleeve down over it, then _pshawed_ when he couldn’t. Looked up and caught Petra’s raised eyebrow, his slightly smug smirk as he zipped his fly. Gave the man a small shrug in return, and tightened the drawstring on his own pants.

“You square?” Tristan asked. Petra tilted his head thoughtfully, then nodded.

“Five by,” he said, pitching what looked like a balled up napkin into a nearby bin. “You?”

“Feel like I could actually sleep now, so yes.” Tristan ran a hand through his hair, tousling the sweated strands. “Thank you.”

There was a small moment where the silence could have become awkward, but then his mouth was curling up into something coy, and the other man was sliding close again with an equally inviting expression. The kiss was lingering, but sated; a parting remark rather than an opening volley.

“When this is all over,” Petra murmured as they parted, hand still cradled against Tristan’s jaw, “I think I’m going back to Murn.”

Tristan met his gaze, mildly surprised. He’d known so many soldiers who refused to talk about ‘after’ - as though making plans while on mission invited bad luck - that when one of them _did_ , it was a rare treat. Still,

“I’ll be sad to see you go,” he responded, genuine, “but their military will be lucky to have you, whatever capacity you choose.”

Even as he shook his head, Petra’s grin was a shining thing. “No, I think I’ll get out completely. Go help at the family farm for a while. Maybe coach a junior Scramble team. Who knows.” He ran a thumb across Tristan’s lower lip, eyes tracking the motion, smile going slightly dark. “For what it’s worth, I think we could have a lot of fun together, you and I.”

The thought flashed hotly in Tristan’s mind, left a current of indulgent fantasies in its wake.

“How about we discuss it on the ride home,” he said, canting his head slightly to brush his lips along the inside of Petra’s wrist.

“I’d enjoy that.” With a final kiss, Petra slid his hands back into his pockets, and retreated in reverse. “Goodnight, Tristan,” he said, rounding toward the stairwell.

“Goodnight, Petra,” Tristan replied. 

* * *

Alphabetically, his name appeared halfway down page six:

_Üdele, Petra Mattias / Sgt, RV-AS / Portwinstäad, Murn / KIA (CoC)_

Recovering the memory of that night was an explosion in his healing head. It left him hollow, raw, weeping in the solitude of his hospital room for the better part of a day…

…and made for one of the most painful condolence letters he’d ever written.

**Author's Note:**

> Here we are, the eve of war.
> 
> Although the series link below will drop you back into Tristan's 'Where Have You Been, My Blue-eyed Son' series with 'The Distance to Here', it might be worth taking a step back (if you haven't already) and catch up with Aunna in '[Liberty She Pirouette](https://archiveofourown.org/works/23731828)'. Just a thought.
> 
> Kudos are love :) Comments are moderated (for spam, not content), but always welcome. :)


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